


Time After Time

by Wolfsheart



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, I Will Remember You, Kissing, M/M, The Last Stand, The Wolverine - Freeform, Time Travel, X-Men 3, because fuck Ratner, no I won't but I'll still have a deja vu feeling about you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 19:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1700183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfsheart/pseuds/Wolfsheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 2006, a grieving Scott Summers meets his end by a kiss.  In 1945, after the bombing of Nagasaki, Logan meets an 'old friend' he won't meet for another 55 years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time After Time

**Author's Note:**

> Scogan Challenge #3 – Time displacement shenanigans. This is pre-DOFP movie’verse, which means that X3 hasn’t been eradicated. Logan in this doesn’t sound like Logan in the comics (and therefore most of my other fics) because movie’verse Logan speaks more correctly than comic’verse Logan.

*

He stared out at the lake and suddenly, his scream and ruby blast parted the water like Moses – if he believed in that as something real instead of a metaphor.  Perhaps he was nothing but a metaphor as well.  What emerged wasn’t the freedom of a people escaping oppression.  What emerged was something he could never fathom, not even in his dreams. 

She walked toward him, dressed in her old uniform, her hair like dark flames, but the black-eyed hunger was new.  She’d lost that sweetness, that goodness that he’d always seen; it was that look that made him blind to all of her deception, to the lusts inside her that didn’t include him.  That turned instead to someone else. 

Someone Scott was just as drawn to, and he couldn’t explain why since all they ever did was argue and fight each other for dominance. 

Scott watched her right up to the point that she stood in front of him. 

“Jean?” 

Her voice was haunted.  Ancient.  “Scott.” 

He moved closer.  “How?” 

And for a moment, they were lost to the questions that would never be answered.  Questions that were sidetracked by her command. 

“Take these off.  I want to see your eyes.  Trust me...I can control it.”  Her voice was hypnosis but with the dark edge like a snake charmer. 

Scott let her remove the ruby-lensed shades, his eyes clamped shut until she told him to open them.  He did, and he felt the flare of his mutation wane until his eyes appeared to be what they would be without his mutation; he saw Jean for the first time without the red tint.  His hands cupped her face, and after a year, their lips met in a kiss that held more danger to it than he remembered. 

It wasn’t until he felt himself being pulled apart from the inside out that he realized kissing his thought-to-be-dead girlfriend was not going to be good for his health. 

*

_POW camp near Nagasaki, 1945_

The man in the hole wanted just one good thing in the world to cling to.  Just one thing to restore hope to his cynical heart. 

He could hear the scratchy record of Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters crooning “Don’t Fence Me In” playing.  Again.  He’d counted it at fifteen plays about three hours ago, and now he didn’t care anymore.  He’d reached the point of insanity forty-eight hours after he’d been shoved in this hole and locked up. 

_Oh, give me land, lots of land under starry skies_

_Don't fence me in_

_Let me ride through the wide open country that I love_

_Don't fence me in_

_Let me be by myself in the evenin' breeze_

_And listen to the murmur of the cottonwood trees_

_Send me off forever but I ask you please_

_Don't fence me in_

Logan pressed his forehead against the wall of his prison, the sweat on his skin gluing the dirt and grime to him.  He’d been in worse; he remembered wading knee-deep in Union and Confederate blood and bodies so ripe with gangrene that his nostrils burned for days with the stench.  This was nothing.  He could smell the other POWs, but they were far enough away that the odor of stale cigarettes and fear and blood and rot was faint. 

It was the occasional screams from torture that scraped underneath his skin the most. 

The screams and that damned album. 

*

_15 August, 1945 – A sake house in a forgotten village_

In the corner sat a man whose skin finally healed, whose hair finally grew back, and who’d just nearly lost the stink of radiation from six days before.  Thick fingers held the delicate sake cup, bringing it to his lips at intervals of three breaths until it was gone and then he refilled it and repeated the process.  His eyes didn’t meet anyone’s but the little old woman who ran the place, and he was certain he’d made a bargain with coin or the promise of heavy lifting and tossing out the troublemakers in order to rent a room out back for a few days.  At least, she was letting him sleep there for now. 

On his third cup of sake, the door opened and ushered in a strange scent, making him look up to see what sort of trouble would dare come in to put off his drinking.  He stared down the six foot tall white man that walked in and looked like whatever was puked up after a cat ate too much bad shrimp at the docks.  He smelled motor oil and water and something distinctly feminine that also had the tang of the predator to it.  That wasn’t the _man_ who walked in – just something embedded into his scent made the man at the table want to kill. 

He watched the white man stumble into the sake house, stared at his battered jeans that looked nothing like he’d seen in a Sears catalog, stared at the leather jacket over a plain t-shirt.  Stared at the messy brown hair and dazed eyes.  The man looked as if he’d seen combat, but he wasn’t in a uniform; or he looked like he’d been held and tortured.  He hauled himself to his feet and stretched until his entire spine cracked in the otherwise silent room, making the other man jump.  He stood at the edge of his table, just watching the stranger take a few more steps forward until his knees gave out and he fell to the floor. 

“Shit,” he muttered and moved faster than his bulk would imply.  Meaty hands grabbed the other man’s arms and tugged him to his feet and over to the corner table before lowering him again to the floor and against the wall for support.  He stared at the man at first then sat across from him and held up his hand to still the woman who owned the place before she came too close until he could make sure it wasn’t a threat. 

“You look pretty beat up, Slim,” he rumbled and gestured for another _tokkuri_ and an extra _ochoko_ , which were brought to the table and set down.  He bowed his head to the woman and she walked away, wary and leaving the other white man to deal with the possible trouble. 

The stranger rubbed his eyes and then stared down at his hands before tilting his head to regard the other man. 

“I feel like a Sentinel mugged me, took my wallet, head-butted me, and then moonwalked over my spine until it fucked off again,” he grumbled.  “But it’s good to hear you call me Slim, Logan.  I thought I was dead.  Guess I made it back, but I can’t find my shades.  Don’t seem to need them now...” 

Logan cocked his eyebrow and poured the sake into both cups, sliding one across the table. 

“We know each other, bub?  Can’t say I recall where we met,” Logan remarked.  He waited while the other man reached over and took the _ochoko_ and downed the rice wine like a shot of whiskey.  Logan winced.  “If that’s the way you drink sake, bub, then I ain’t surprised you look like shit.  Or...whatever you said mugged you.” 

Scott Summers stared across the table, his nostrils flared to take in air in order to cool his throat and brain the moment he gulped back the shot of what turned out to not be bourbon or whiskey or whatever he was used to Logan pouring.  He nearly choked at the unfamiliar burn of the rice wine.

“Quit fucking around, Logan,” he rasped.  “We met years ago when I saved your ass in the snow from Sabretooth.  We served together as teachers at the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning.  Don’t tell me you’ve had another memory lapse.  And what happened to my shades?  Why am I not blasting a hole through these walls...or you?” 

The guy had seen too much action, Logan thought.  He was caught in the radiation smoke, and it had scrambled his brains, and now he thought he knew him.  Though the stranger did know his name.  How could he explain that? 

And then he looked down at his hands, and he could feel the claws grinding against his other bones just beneath the surface of his skin.  He had a feeling this guy knew a little bit about the sort of pain that never goes away because he was born with it. 

“Let’s pretend that I have lost my memories of you, and I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Slim.  I don’t know a professor, don’t know an institute of higher learning, and I don’t know any Sabretooth,” Logan stated.  He took a drink of sake, his eyes still on the other man.  “So, let’s pretend that I don’t remember any of that and you tell me who the hell you are.  Such as...what’s your name?  What are your shades, and how would you blast a hole in the walls when you don’t even have a gun on you” 

Finally looking up, eyes opened without flinching about it, the stranger looked across the table at Logan.  “Christ, Logan.  You really don’t remember me.  Me.  Scott Summers.  Cyclops.  You call me Slim all the time.  Or one-eye.  Or ‘dick’.  That seems to be your favorite.” 

The name didn’t ring a bell to Logan.  He didn’t know any Summers, but this young man spoke with such conviction that it had to be true.  Or at least, he believed it was. 

Scott pointed at his eyes.  “These are usually covered.  Have to be.  Ruby-quartz shades...or a visor that allows me to control the level of the concussive blast.  You’ve seen me blast holes through roofs.  You’ve seen me blast Sentinels in the Danger Room.”  He shook his head and watched Logan pour him more sake, which he downed just like he would any shot.  He couldn’t figure out why Logan was staring at him in shock every time he did that, though whatever he was drinking was potent. 

“It’s sake, bub,” Logan spoke.  “You keep eyeing the _ochoko._   It ain’t whiskey.  And if anyone but me heard you talking like that, they’d think you were a nutjob, so...might want to keep some of that talk a little quieter.” 

Squinting at Logan, Scott decided to trust his sometimes-friend, sometimes-rival, and he decided that the next time his cup was filled, he would sip it.  He’d never had sake, but he’d heard plenty about its potency.  He was still muddling through his memories to figure out how the hell he wound up here...and where exactly _here_ was. 

“Fine.  So I’ll keep the mutant talk to a minimum.  You want to tell me how far from Alkalai Lake we are?  Last thing I remember was being there because I kept hearing Jean call my name...then I saw her...we kissed, and then I felt extreme pain like I was imploding.  Next thing I know, I woke up...here.  Wherever ‘here’ is,” Scott explained.  “And I’m without my shades, so I can only assume that I’ve somehow lost my powers,” he added and turned to face Logan, who gave him that all-too-familiar eyebrow raise. 

Logan grunted and leaned his elbows against the table.  “Bub, I can only assume that Alkalai Lake is somewhere in the States, and you’re in Japan in 1945.  I’m going out on a limb to think that Jean’s your wife, and it sounds like she did some number on you if you felt that much pain and then woke up here.”  He watched those eyes lower to the table as Scott rubbed his forehead.  “As for your powers...guess you have.  Might be more convenient that way, Slim, if you normally go around blasting off rooftops.  Look, why don’t you just relax, I’ll find you a place to sleep tonight, and tomorrow, we can sort this all out and get you back to where you belong?”  It was the best suggestion he could come up with, and Logan was old enough to know that if he’d survived all that he had and was still kicking – not to mention the bone claws flexing underneath his skin – then what was to say this guy wasn’t telling the truth? 

“Sounds good.  Lying down sounds good.  Passing out for a while sounds good,” Scott mumbled while rubbing his eyes.  He heard the sound of sake being poured into the small cup, and he sat up and true to his earlier decision, he sipped it.  He needed it to process the information that he was with Logan in 1945 Japan. 

Hours later, after Logan had glared down half a dozen scrawny men in tattered uniforms looking to intimidate meals and drink out of the owner, he turned back to ‘his’ table only to see that Scott Summers guy slumped against the wall, barely awake and still looking like death warmed over. 

“Alright, bub, let’s get you horizontal, and tomorrow, we’ll figure out how to get you home,” Logan muttered and yanked the guy to his feet, his arm underneath Scott’s to wrap around the taller man’s center.  “Alkalai Lake, you say...some school.  I’m sure I can find someone who’ll get you there.”  He paused halfway to the back where he was sleeping, and he spoke to the owner about a second room for Summers.  He was dismayed to find out that his room was the only one aside from hers, and there was no other bedding. 

He’d have to share. 

Logan grumped as he half carried, half dragged Scott to the back and stared down at the bedding that he’d been given.  If he straightened it out some more, they might have enough room for a modest two inches between them.  Hell, he’d slept in worst places before and with more men than this crowded around him.  Logan supposed he could suffer through one night. 

“Alright.  Here it is.  Ain’t much, but you’ll have to deal with it ‘cause I don’t think you’d make it on your own out there,” he told Scott.

Scott didn’t even flinch but dropped down to the bedding and tugged off his boots and his leather jacket.  His jeans dug into his waist, so he unbuttoned them and squirmed out of them, leaving him in just the t-shirt and a pair of boxers.  He rolled onto his side and stared up at Logan. 

“Thanks, Logan,” he told him and wondered if this weird...dream or whatever it was would end by morning. 

“Not a problem, Slim,” Logan answered in a low rumble while he pulled off his own shirt and boots and pants until he was just a shade more undressed than his strange guest.  When he lowered himself to the bedding, he nudged Scott closer to the wall, instinctively putting himself between the door and the other man, and then he flopped onto his back, his head cushioned on one arm.  He didn’t know what to do with the other. 

Scott decided for him. 

The younger mutant rested his scruffy cheek against Logan’s shoulder, strong jawline nuzzling up into the curve of neck.  He wouldn’t have dreamed of doing this before.  No, that wasn’t true.  He’d dreamed of it almost from the moment he’d saved Logan that day in the snow; there had been something familiar about the rumble of his voice the first time he heard him speak, even though his first words were to insult him.  The nights Jean shook the bed and shattered glass objects around their bedroom were the nights he’d dreamed about Logan.  They’d never discussed the correlation of that because he didn’t think Jean had made the connection, and he hadn’t wanted to complicate their already difficult relationship by him admitting to feelings beyond jealous rivalry for the bad boy his girlfriend wanted almost as much as he did. 

Logan’s body remained stock still, and he stared at the ceiling, afraid to breathe.  What the hell was this now? 

“Uh...Slim...?”

“You can gut me in the morning, Logan.  Just...let me have this moment for now.  I have no idea how I wound up here and in the year you told me, but if you don’t know who I am, then I’ve either found a way to move through time or I’m having one helluva death dream back at the lake,” Scott mumbled.  “Always wanted to do this, and if you gut me now, you’ll just ruin my last dream before whatever Jean did to me kills me.” 

He held his breath and waited to feel adamantium claws force into his chest.  Instead, he felt that arm wrap around him and hold him close.  Scott dared a little more and draped his arm across Logan’s chest, feeling the rise and fall as breath moved through the old mutant’s lungs.  His body sagged against the bedding and Logan, and his eyes closed. 

Logan picked up Scott’s breathing and heartbeat and could tell when he drifted off.  A part of him wondered if this was some weird dream – an aftereffect of the radiation before his system kicked it completely and left him whole again. 

*

Sometime in the night, Scott squirmed against Logan and nuzzled his lips along the older man’s jaw up to his ear.  Logan stirred just from the movement, but he made himself more aware when those lips touched his skin. 

“Go back t’sleep, Slim.  You’re not gonna find answers doing that,” he grumbled but was cut off by Scott’s voice. 

“Can’t remember what happened to my shades, Logan.  Look for them...around the lake.  Remember to find them.  Ask Jean what she did to me.”

Before Logan could question, Scott had dropped off again. 

*

Scott felt himself tearing apart from the inside while his lips were still attached to Jean’s.  His bones crumbled within, veins and vessels shredded, blood frozen and burned all at once while his skin disintegrated.  The very last part of him to survive was his brain, and the image that flashed before him was a memory that never happened – somewhere in Japan, curled up on floor-bedding, snuggled against Logan’s side, his cheek nestled in the crook of his shoulder and neck.  Protected, perhaps even cared for more than he’d ever been.  Even that became dust along with his mind. 

*

_16 August 1945 – a near-empty room at a sake house in Japan_

_“...my shades, Logan.  Look for them...around the lake...  Ask Jean what she did to me.”_

Logan’s heart stopped the moment he jolted awake, breath stopped at his lips, eyes wide and darting around the room as he felt pain and heard that whisper leftover from his dream.  His arm tingled and neck tingled where a body had curled up with him all night; a body now gone as if it had never been there.  Only that whisper and leftover prickle remained to tell Logan that he hadn’t slept alone. 

*

Logan followed Storm out to the lake, and the hairs on his arms stood up as he stared at the debris floating around in the air.  They knew Scott was here because they’d found his motorcycle, but so far, they hadn’t found him.  The air felt electric and smelled all shades of wrong to his heightened sense. 

They both moved as if through a viscous substance.  Storm was saying something, but Logan focused on his horror at what could have caused this.  Something red and silver flashed in the gray light and Logan stretched out his hand to take it. 

His fingers curled around Scott’s shades, and contact with them seemed to shock his skin; it was all in his head. 

_“...ask Jean what she did to me...”_

Logan’s jaw felt warm where lips had once pressed there; his right side and arm felt an invisible weight.  He heard that distant whisper in his memory. 

He looked up and hoped. 

**Author's Note:**

> "Don't Fence Me In" was based on text by a poet and engineer with the Department of Highways in Helena, Montana, Robert (Bob) Fletcher. Cole Porter, who had been asked to write a cowboy song for the 20th Century Fox musical, bought the poem from Fletcher for $250. "Don't Fence Me In" was also recorded by Bing Crosby and The Andrews Sisters in 1944. Crosby entered the studio on July 25, 1944, without having seen or heard the song. Within 30 minutes, he and the Andrews Sisters had completed the recording, which sold more than a million copies and topped the Billboard charts for eight weeks in 1944–45. (via [Don't Fence Me In Wikipedia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Don't_Fence_Me_In_\(song\)))


End file.
